


Lullaby Noir

by writing_is_hard



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, F/M, Friendship, Gen, should I put a warning for Catholicism?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 11:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7843306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_is_hard/pseuds/writing_is_hard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know, my grandma, she used to say," Matt said quietly, "that... poverty is the devil's playground."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The asshole

Shit. Shit. There was someone in his office. Not stealing, not threatening, just... there. On the floor. Foggy turned slowly - standing frozen in your own doorway, very classy, Nelson - and gave the locks a long hard look. But no, no sign of a break in.

Which there wouldn't be, he realized, since the door was open and he must have forgotten to lock it behind him yesterday evening. And, okay, now that he thought about it, he had been in no state to remember - well, anything. Edna Crilly's divorce case was wearing him off.

Right.

Foggy took a few steps forward. The man on the floor still wasn't moving, and... was that blood?

Oh shit. Oh shit, did he have a BODY in his office? (Is that Tom Crilly's way of delivering a message?)

If this man died just to get Foggy to fall in line, someone will pay for this, dearly, and Crilly will have the rest of his miserable life to... oh thank God, his chest was moving.

Breathing. Yes. So Crilly wasn't a murderer after all. Thank God, because Foggy wasn't sure he would have the balls to deliver on his mental threats.

That still left a sleeping man to deal with. Shit.

The man was huddled beneath what looked like a far, far too large,  _really_ ugly black coat, splashed with drops of white paint at the bottom, in case someone failed to notice just how worn out and shabby it was without them. He had a shock of dark hair sticking out in every direction, but, interestingly, a neat five o'clock shade on his cheeks. He seemed to be twitching just a bit in his sleep. Pale and curled up against the wall, he looked small. 

And, well, there were bruises. And cuts. Dark reed puddle growing beneath his head. He leaned over the man carefully.

"Hello?"

*

The moment he touched him the man shot up and caught both his arms. Foggy screamed.

"Don't kill me!"

Nobody moved to kill anyone. The other man looked just as scared. Disoriented, too.

"Wh..." he blinked rapidly, pale. "What...?"

Right. Well, they were equally informed at least.

Foggy wasn't so sure it was a good thing this once. Someone had to gather their shit together and see this situation through. Foggy would be grateful if the other man was better equipped to do that than Foggy himself. But, no. That would just be too easy.

Foggy took a breath.

The man jerked. He tensed all over, ready for a jump. Foggy blinked. "Uh, h-hi?"

This wasn't going the way it should. The man looked all wired up for a fight - still holding his arms, and boy, that was one strong grip - and since Foggy wasn't attacking, he seemed clueless as to what to do next. Well, great, Foggy knew the feeling.

"L-look, ah... it seems like you might need some help?"

"No hospitals." It was an automatic response, well-rehearsed and given without thinking. Foggy felt a little sick. The man frowned. "Who are you?"

Right. Maybe he should have led with that. "Foggy Nelson," he said with as much flourish as he could muster. "You?"

The man didn't seem convinced. "Matt," he croaked warily.

He did let go of his arms, though. (Oh. _Oh_ , man. _Welcome back, circulation. We missed you_.)

Foggy forced himself to focus on something other than his veins. ( _Did they collapse? Is that possible?_ Right. Focus.) He pulled himself together. "Great! Nice to meet you, Matt."

The man - Matt - nodded stiffly, and stood on shaky legs. Foggy looked at him carefully. "So, uh... you okay, Matt?"

"I'm fine."

Foggy snorted. "That is the shittiest lie I heard in quite a while, pal. You're bleeding all over the place."

The man - Matt, right - paused, then scrunched up his nose. "Sorry," he muttered.

Jesus, he was just like Edna Crilly.  _I'm so sorry I'm hurt, Mr. Nelson, Foggy._  Foggy wanted to scream at her sometimes.  _It'snot that bad. He didn't mean to. I'm fine, see? Sorry for the mess. I don't need help. I won't need help until the day I die._

"Okay, well, sit down before you fall, alright?"

The man didn't seem to react, so Foggy walked up to him and gently guided him to the nearest chair. He went easily - Foggy wondered if he should be worried about that. He always was with Edna.

"You hear a lot of lies?" the man asked, sounding like he didn't care. Apparently he decided to make an effort anyway. Foggy wasn't sure if he should be grateful or just rolling his eyes. This effort was  _lame._

"Oh yeah," he said, gesturing excitedly. "You, my friend, are sitting in front of a defense attorney. We hear _a lot_  of bullshit." Matt stiffened at his flying hands, frowning slightly. Foggy squinted at his eyes. "Think you have a concussion," he muttered, wishing he had a penlight or something. "Wait here."

It only took a second to grab the first aid kit and put the kettle on. Tea makes everything better, that's what grandma Nelson said.

He knelt in front of-- Matt, right - and propped up his chin. "Well, okay, let me see..."

There was an ugly cut on Matt's forehead, probably the source of all the blood around them. Foggy wouldn't be worried - head wounds bleed _a lot_  (and boy, did he hate that he knew that) - if it wasn't for the near-black bruise surrounding it and Matt's obvious disorientation.

Why did these things always happen to him?

Matt leaned away from his prodding fingers. "You gonna stitch me up?"

Foggy huffed. "Let's hope not, buddy. I haven't graduated to stitches yet. That handsome look of yours might gravely suffer."

***********************************************************

"Most people, they find a stranger in their office... they call the police."

Foggy looked up briefly. He was enjoying the silence, dammit. It seemed companionable. As companionable as it can be when one stranger is disinfecting cuts on another stranger's face, anyway. This was _not_ how Foggy imagined his life as a lawyer.  
  
"Got a lot of experience in that, buddy?" he sniped.  
  
"Why do you have a med kit in an office?"

So Matt didn't want to discuss his experience. Well, Foggy didn't want to discuss some things, either. "Wounded and bleeding and still asking somewhat relevant questions. You'd make a fine lawyer, buddy."

Matt snorted. "Foggy Nelson," he said, for whatever reason. "Defense attorney. And you didn't even consider calling the police. Why?"

Foggy put the gauze away with more force than necessary. How would Matt know what he  _considered?_ It was none of his business, anyway.

The water was boiling. Well, finally. Foggy needed a better kettle. He walked to the kitchenette, perfectly aware that he was stalling. Which was ridiculous, since he had nothing to hide - but, hey, the water was boiling, and tea makes everything better. Grandma Nelson always said so.  
  
He dropped into the mug as much sugar as he thought was edible with vindictive pleasure - Matt was _irritating_ \- before pushing it into his hand.  
  
"You know, this scrap of yours didn't just magically appear one day. You wanna sue? We can go and sue right now, free of charge."  
  
It was a challenge, and a petty one at that, but also an honest offer. Foggy found himself hoping Matt would take it. Whichever asshole was taking his bad day out on the smaller than him, they should get hit right _back_.  
  
Matt rose an eyebrow, and Foggy knew what his answer would be. "Judges don't get all that bothered when a homeless man gets roughed up."

The cut wasn't all that bad, now that it was clean of grime and not leaking blood anymore. Foggy resolved to put butterfly stitches on it. "Oh yeah? I bet police doesn't react well to some things either _._ Help! Officer, help! I need to report a grave crime, this man is  _sleeping!"_

He was surprised by the sound of Matt's laugh. It was... brilliant. Genuine. Nothing like you would expect from a homeless, beaten down man. His smile soon took a bitter curve, though. "You'd be surprised," he said, with an air of certainty that could only come from experience.

In truth, Foggy wasn't so sure he would be. Not when he thought back to the few  times Brett got upset enough to go drink with him... and to the stories he told after his fourth beer. Brett always pretended he didn't remember the next morning, but pretending can only get you so far; that one shameful, awkward look between them before parting ways, and they both knew. 

Even if he forgot, he still remembered Landman and Zack, and his last case there. He still remembered the lawyers and judges whose numbers he kept in that special group on his phone. 

He put in the fifth butterfly stitch - the cut was _long_ \- and took a moment to inspect his work. "Well, all done. I can't do better than that."  
  
Matt put a hand to his forehead, fingers trailing along the stitches. "Thank you," he murmured, sounding surprised. Like he somehow didn't expect this to end well the whole time Foggy was dressing his wound.  
  
Whatever happened to Matt, Foggy didn't like it.  
  
Foggy reached into the kit, looking through the disarray of meds. "I'm gonna give you some antibiotics, just in case. And, in all honesty... you should get a tetanus shot, too. I can walk you to a clinic?"  
  
"It's fine," Matt said dismissively, like it was nothing. Foggy squinted at him. 

"You're sure? I mean, I can pay."

Matt rose an eyebrow. "I'm not a charity case," he said archly.  
  
"Well, no," Foggy agreed easily. "Us corrupted lawyers are not in the habit of providing charity. I fully expect you to pay me back with conversation and good company. Three times, at least."

It was a nice thought; to have someone around here. To talk to someone who wasn't his client. With the amount of people greeting him on the street, you'd think Foggy was anything but lonely; in reality, he felt like one of those kids on high school movies, learning the hard way that being popular wasn't the same as having friends. 

But Matt wasn't all that talkative. He didn't even drink his overly sweet tea, from what Foggy could tell. Instead, he put the mug away and gave an apologetic smile. "I should go."

Well, sure. 

Foggy observed as his weird-ass guest rose from the chair and retrieved his backpack, taking something out of it. Was that... a cane? Shit. It was. Matt tapped his way to the door and turned around, frowning.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"It's... ugh... I didn't..."

Beneath what must be the most scratched pair of sunglasses to ever exist, Matt beamed at him. "Well, don't moonlight as a detective, counselor. I'm sure there are other interesting hobbies you could pick up."  
  
And just like that, he turned around and walked out to the street, tapping all the way.  
  
Foggy reached for his abandoned tea, wincing at the taste - way, way too sweet.  
  
"Asshole," he muttered to himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider this very much imperfect as of yet. Next chapters are more thought out, this one needs... everything? I'll be coming back to it when I have time. 
> 
> (Edit: I did actually come back to it in the proverbial meantime. I'm thinking of maybe adding a sentence or two near the end, but other than that, I don't expect big changes in chapter one.)
> 
> Posting stuff around here will never cease to feel weird.


	2. Lullaby

Matt has no intention of ever meeting Foggy Nelson again. He's tempted, sure; Nelson is the best kind of soul that Matt has fortune or misfortune to meet sometimes. He has a smile ready for every stranger, would give his time and effort without hesitation, help without any strings attached.

Well, that's how he seems at least. Appearances can be deceiving, and first impressions more so; Matt learned, the hard way, that a lot of people are happy to grant help in a surge of pity or compassion - a disposable good deed to lift everybody's mood - but they get tired quickly if you come back for more. A good deed is not something you should demand, or need.

But. If Foggy is who Matt thinks he is, he is probably a good man. Someone that anyone would be lucky to call a friend, and Matt would have a chance to. Matt doesn't have many friends, or opportunities to make them. Most people turn their heads away from him just on principle; Nelson wouldn't.

Probably.

Besides, Matt hasn't had a good deed done for him so selflessly in quite a while. He commits it to memory, one of the many reasons to keep faith in his city - in people.

But he won't meet Nelson again.

Stick was right about some things, and one of those was that friends hinder you, and more importantly, you hinder your friends. Nothing can be done about that; every connection you have is a connection you might have to pay for one day, in blood or in tears. God made the world full of painful balances - this was just one of them.

A tear for a smile.

He walked through the streets, listening to his city. One of the advantages of his "gift" was that he could never be bored; it was like having a million TV channels on, on the very inside of his brain. Some of that was literal, too - there were so many TV-sets around.

That wasn't the important part, though. Directly above him, a baby cried out, demanding attention. Ah. Melissa Young got to her feet, tired but already picking up her daughter. Melissa was one of those people Matt was striving to be more like - battered but strong, standing tall in any circumstances, full of quiet optimism that no crime could break.

Matt nurtured this optimism in his soul, trying hard.

After Ted Feany dumped her for a girl who wasn't pregnant, Melissa didn't cry - she was relieved. Sometimes, love is not enough to let someone into your life, to your baby. Matt understood that; he kept away.

In the apartment on his left, Old Gordon was grumbling good-naturally at his grandson, who, talking excitedly about _pirate football_ , wasn't letting him read the newspaper in peace.

Old Gordon was a man that needed his news; he knew the dangers of his neighborhood, and he knew they didn't always come from criminals. Not long ago, Gordon was shot by a police officer on patrol. The bullet lodged itself in his left lung and stayed there ever since. The policeman was never even persecuted; as an old black man walking the street after dark, Gordon was apparently rightfully assumed to be a threat.

Matt knew better than to attack an officer on his behalf; during the shooting, he wouldn't hesitate, but all it could do now was either hone police attention on himself, or push them towards Gordon and the rest of the black community.

He observed the man closely, though. Sooner or later, he will make a mistake, and then - well, it's not that hard to ruin a career. Jake Shelby shouldn't have been accepted into the force in the first place.

"Yeah, so you're a pirate, and there's a match. And there are other pirates, and each pirate has a crew, and a ship, and they all have knifes and swords..."

Tommy Gordon was a seven-year-old. His parents died in a car accident, and it took three months for the boy to start talking again. Now he almost lost his grandpa, too.

"...and then BAM! you have to go for the ball again."

That boy is an overachiever in all things imagination, Old Gordon sometimes says, with fondness in his voice. Matt heartfeltly agrees - Tommy could easily be a novelist. Who knows, maybe that's what waiting for him in the future... Matt wonders if the book would be available in Braille.

"Mom, _I'm telling you_ , the Prinstones are NOT stealing your tea. You must have misplaced it again."

Matt quirked his lips; the Prinstones were currently engaged in a full-family debate about life in space, blessedly unaware of Linda Brian's accusations. "They're watching us, daddy!"

"No, they're not!"

Well. Unaware _for now_ , because The Old Hag will definitely be telling them what she thinks about _stealing other people's drinking property_ just as soon as her harassed daughter is not there to stop her. Trying to manage Linda was like trying to manage a horny teenager; one moment you have them under control, and the next it's already done.

It wasn't her fault. Old Hag was schizophrenic, and earned her nickname not by her neighbors' exasperation, but by actually threatening to hex Joe Prinstone and turn him into a tree. For stealing her drinking property.

"The boy might be onto something, Lucas. Space is a big place."

"You watch the space around you, and don't worry about aliens. I wonder who's gonna make your dinners on that dream spaceship of yours?"

Two small feet came running at the end of the street, followed by two more. A boy laughed, surprisingly laud. Matt resumed walking.

"And then, and then the other pirate steals the ball, and..."

"Hey, Lilly, how was work?"

"Where the hell are those glasses, I swear to God..."

Matt caught Lilly Johnson saying that work was boring as usual, which thank God, because anyone who works as a fire department call respoder should only have boring days. He caught Jane Hill telling her husband where he left his glasses last night, too, but he wasn't listening too closely.

In all the clamor, Matt could hear a person waking up - heartbeat picking up, breathing changing... Was it...? His hands tightened at his cane.

"Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?"

"Okay."

Matt lost the grip on his cane, staggering with relief. Mia Hope was out of the hospital then. She'll be fine.

"Sir, are you alright?"

"What? Yes, yes..." it always seemed strange when people asked questions like that. Matt wasn't sure why, but it didn't matter. Mia Hope was going to live.

Melissa's baby made a high-pitched happy sound. Matt agreed wholeheartedly: _Right there with you, Addy. You always know what to say._

Like a rubber-band snapping back, the sounds of other people flooded into his mind. "Do you think the aliens will come and shoot us? Uncle Joe?"

"So pirate football is played on ships?"

"Mom! Where's that woman..."

"Look at this, Johnny, I can never get it right. How is it that when we cook together, it's perfect, but when I cook alone, even the dogs wouldn't touch it?"

"Shoot! Shoot! Tu doom!"

"Well then. I'll just have to make us dinner more often, won't I? Or we could skip straight to the dessert, if you'd like..."

Melissa hummed quietly, rocking her little Addy in her arms. _Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home..._

_Swing low, sweet chariot..._

Matt didn't have many friends, but he wasn't lonely. He stood silently, surrounded by voices of people he loved, cared for, knew for years even though they didn't know him. He smiled, turning his face directly to the sun - enjoying the warm glow like the sighted never could. A tear for a smile.

Matt would fight for strangers, but he never had to. He kept his hands loosely on his cane, long, worn-out coat swirling at his ankles. All around him, his city was pulsing with life, a lullaby running up to the sky like a prayer.

 

 


	3. Tristan and Isolde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was waiting for this, I'm so sorry it took so long. At first, I was busy graduating my studies (hurray for that!), but after that, I don't really have an excuse. I'll try to keep up the weekly updates from now on.

 

"Someone patched you up recently," Claire noted. "You cheating on me, Murdock?"

Matt clutched at his heart dramatically. "Me? Never! How could you suspect me of such despicable deed? My queen!"

Claire laughed. "Alright, stop buffooning around, Lancelot. I need clear access to your chest wounds, and my hands shake when I laugh."

Matt obediently let his arms fall to his side. The wounds weren't really anything to worry about messing up: the one gash from tonight was already taken care of, and the three that Claire was checking up on well on their way to healing. Still, when the lady says shut up...

Not that he had to keep _completely_ quiet. "Lancelot, I like that."

Claire snorted. "Yeah? Which part: the part where he was a cheating bastard who seduced a woman and almost got her killed, or the part where he betrayed and destroyed his own best friend and king?"

Claire had a passion for history that she's never quite got to explore in high school. It started with old books; they were the first thing to catch her interest when something finally did. She went right by the shiny, laminated novels for teens and reached for the dustiest, most crumbling booklet she could find.

It turned out to be _Tristan and Isolde_ , in the original version of medieval poems.

Matt smiled. "The part where the queen fell in love with him?"

Of course, now snarking at brave historical figures and tragic love heroes was Claire's favourite pastime. Although to be fair, that started pretty much at the same time as she picked up the book. _("They got roofied? Seriously, Matt, listen to this, I think they got_ _roofied")._ She just got better at it over time.

Claire made a soft scoffing noise, working on his wounds. "This is gonna sting."

Matt stilled. He braced himself... he didn't make a sound.

Claire withdrew the pincette and penlight from the wound, catching the trailing blood with a gauze pad. "It's creepy when you do that, you know."

"So you keep telling me." He concentrated on his breathing for a moment, because no matter how it might have looked, he definitely _felt_ the searing pain of his flesh being pried open. "How's Santino doing?"

Claire sighed. "Okay, considering. Any other street kids I should expect on my doorstep? What's going on on the streets, anyway?"

Well, wasn't that always a loaded question. But he knew better than to hide things from Claire. “Rigoletto is lending money again,” he started. “He’s trying to expand, make a power net for himself… you know the Hope family?”

Of course she did. “Their daughter’s sick, right?”

Matt nodded tiredly. Mia Hope was barely seventeen, and she had been close to death four times already. Matt's left hand twitched against his tight. “I think they might be indebted to him now.”

He wished he could believe Mia got her second chance cleanly, by virtue of only God and medicine. But he was old enough to know that in this world, every miracle came with a price. He couldn’t really begrudge Mia’s parents for being willing to pay it.

Hell, had it occurred to him that money could help, he would steal it for them himself.

“Any idea what he’ll want in return?”

Matt shrugged with his good shoulder, mindful of the bandage on the other one. “Nothing, for a while,” he said. “Maybe nothing forever. He’ll just keep them in his loop until he needs them.”

Maybe nothing, maybe everything. But the Hopes had a chronically ill daughter who depended on their ability to provide money for her treatment; that was likely to put their debt on hold.

This was one of the reasons Rigoletto thrived in Hell’s Kitchen. No matter how many laws he broke, how many enemies he had killed, how many shop owners he forced to pay his _“affito”,_ the people of Hell’s Kitchen will stand behind him. Because when you needed help – really needed it – Luca Rigoletto was ready to provide. In many disturbing ways, he was the hero this neighborhood looked up to.

He shook his head, pushing the thought out. “You going to see David tonight?”

Claire stood up. She took her rubber gloves off with more energy than necessary, a laud _snap_ cutting through the air. “I can tell you’re holding out on me, you know.”

Matt winced. “There’s a Chinese gang skirting into the city,” he admitted. “Rigoletto’ll push them out soon.” Hopefully. Or Matt will, and that will be much less pretty.

“Drugs?”

His fingers curled unconsciously. “Yeah.”

Back when they were kids, Claire once read out a good third of Dante's _Inferno_ to him, before noticing what kind of effect it had and refusing to "feed his dumb Catholic ass bullshit." Matt wasn't sure if he still believed in Dante's haunting accuracy in describing Hell; but there were people who deserved to go there. 

"Hm." Claire walked away, puttering in the kitchen. Clinking of glass, a knife, rich smell of an orange being cut in half. She came back and stood directly in front of Matt. He knew what that meant; this routine has been set up for a while now. “Drink.”

Silently, he accepted the glass pushed into his hand.

The juice smelled vibrant and acidic, but it tasted like ash down his throat. He listened as Claire put things away, clearing the space where she patched him up. She never let him help with that part; apparently, it had a calming effect on her, putting her home back in order. Matt wished other things were as easy to sort out as that.

He breathed in slowly, focusing on the sounds and smells. Claire's soft steps and breathing; her heartbeat, her hands moving objects to where they belong. The stark scent of his blood and the recent medical procedure, both negligible. Beneath that, everything that made the space what it was: citrus fruits, spiced herbal teas, sandalwood candles and the faint whiff of a hospital. The lemon juice - boiled with cloves - that Claire washed all of her clothes with. 

Now it also smelled of a teenage boy, dirty, scrawny and desperate, bringing the past right into the present. And not just for him. 

Claire finished cleaning up before he noticed. "You gonna spend the night? Santino is asking about you."

Of course he was. It was never a perfect plan, to bring Santino to Claire.

Matt shook his head; no. No, that wasn't a good idea. "He shouldn't see me here."

He's pretty sure the pause that followed was the sound of a beautiful woman rolling her eyes at him. Matt would know it anywhere. "He's bound to see you, Matt, he lives here. It's not like you have all that much control over when you come. What, are you gonna take a raincheck? Just saying, it might be better if he saw you here _without_ bones poking out of your body."

Oh come on. "It doesn't happen _that_ much." 

"No, but it _does_ happen. Leaves me with nightmares every time. Is that really what it'll take to say hi to the kid whose life you're trying to save? Another 'bullet between ribs' episode, with me poking around your liver? That _mierda_ is seared into my brain _forever._ " 

Well, fair enough. That was... that was a bad night. "Sorry." And because Claire always knew where to poke him to make him jump exactly how high she wanted, he added, "I'll think about meeting Santino. I mean, in more... civilized circumstances."

Claire snorted softly.

Yeah, okay, civilized was maybe too much to ask. Civil? 

"But not tonight. Tonight I just..." he shrugged uncomfortably. Claire knew about his restlessness. "I just need some fresh air tonight."

"None of _that_ in Hell's Kitchen."

Well that was an invitation if he ever saw one. "Ha, funny ha. You love Hell's Kitchen."

"Oh, I don't know. Hell's Kitchen is so dark and broody... maybe I should move."

To be honest, Matt was sometimes worried she would; life with Hell's Kitchen shadows at her window couldn't be easy, and no matter how brave and loyal Claire was, she knew that she had to think of herself, too.

One day, it will come to that.

Not today though. "Hey. I figured you might use this." Claire was throwing something at him, a soft shape arching through the air.

Matt caught it easily. Clothes.  But they smelled... off. 

"These aren't David's."

Claire shifted, floor creaking under her feet. "No, I threw his out. You never really notice how much hospital stink your clothes can absorb until you take them out of the hospital, you know?" 

"I can take hospital stink, Claire." Though to be honest, he was glad he didn't have to. David was a surgeon; that was an entirely new level of stomach-flipping. 

"I don't care. I threw them out already."

Right. Well, that wasn't something he could really argue with. Not that he couldn't just dig the clothes out of the trash can if he wanted, but... "And these?"

Claire took a deep breath, her heartbeat picking up just _slightly._ Claire matured to be one of the most collected and cool-headed persons Matt had ever listened to - and yet somehow, every now and then, just one question from Matt could make her that one bit _nervous._

"Well, throwing stuff out felt shitty, so I figured I can go on and replace it. There's nothing wrong with that."

Of course. "Claire..."

And just like that, her nerves were gone. She stood calm and confident, open as she ever seemed to be, straightforward. And upset.

"Don't. Okay? Just don't."

"Let's not do this again, Matt. I know that you don't like charity - well, it's not _charity_ that I'm trying to give you. I'm a _friend_. You took care of me when I needed it, let me take care of you for a bit."

Matt could point out how she took care of him all the time, patching him up, stocking up on ridiculously expensive medical supplies, listening to his rants, providing food and shelter if he needed them. Really, whatever debt Claire might have thought she had one time, it was long paid back.

"You're out there, all the time. With people with knives, and guns... with people who don't give a shit about you. You talk about fresh air like you forget fresh air is _cold,_ the night is _cold,_ Matt, and you don't need to look like nobody gives a shit about you, because someone _does._ "

Another woman might be on a verge of tears now, Matt thought dumbly. Claire Temple never cried. "I just… want you to have something beyond that _coat_."

He could say so much, all of it true. But none of it would make things better for either of them. He nodded slowly. "Okay. Thank  you."

He went out the window as quietly as he came.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Affito" basically means "rent" in Italian. I think of it as protection money, but maybe without the outright threats and violence in advance.
> 
> "Mierda," on the other hand, has a much less polite meaning of "shit" in Spanish :) 
> 
> Since this is a stressful memory for Claire, and probably one from a while back, when her English wasn't as smooth as it is now, I figured she would revert a little to her mother tongue recalling it :)


End file.
